The Heirloom Brides Collection

by Tracey V. Bateman

  “Me, neither.” She gently tugged his ear, suddenly unsteady for so many reasons.

  The boy who had always had her heart grazed his fingers against the waistband of her apron, pulling her closer. There was a warmth to Tate Kennedy. Maybe it was the life in him, his jovial ways. Maybe it was his years beneath the sun. Or the goodness that beat beneath her palm when she pressed it to his chest… the way he had always kept her safe and how he was the only good thing she could remember about the year her father died. Wren laced her fingers into his hair, holding on. The last thing she saw as his faced brushed hers was his smile. And then he kissed her, as if they never had another place to be but there.

  “So where are you taking me first?”

  Tate looked over at Wren when she spoke. With her hand in his, they walked across the meadow—the sun sinking in the sky just behind them. “First?” He squinted playfully. “Who’s going anywhere?”

  “Well, you’ve got to take me somewhere.”

  “Is that so?”

  She smiled up at him.

  “How about Virginia Beach? I think you’d like it there.”

  Tipping her head to the side, she nodded thoughtfully.

  “I’ll take you, then. First chance we get. Rent you a cottage, and you can collect seashells.”

  She all-out grinned now.

  “And then one day, we’ll go a little farther. What would you say to that?”

  She squeezed his hand as they walked on. “I’d like that. I’d like that a whole lot.”

  Joanne Bischof has a deep passion for Appalachian culture and writing stories that shine light on God’s grace and goodness. She lives in the mountains of Southern California with her husband and their three children. When she’s not weaving Appalachian romance, she’s blogging about faith, folk music, and the adventures of country living that bring her stories to life. She is a Christy Award finalist and author of Be Still My Soul, Though My Heart Is Torn, and My Hope Is Found (WaterBrook Multnomah). www.joannebischof.com.

  Something Borrowed

  Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Dedication

  For Kamryn,

  who rescues creatures in distress;

  and for Mom,

  who still calls Minnesota home.

  Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart,

  and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great

  commandment. And the second is like unto it,

  Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.

  MATTHEW 22:37–39

  Chapter One

  Wilhelmina, Minnesota

  Spring 1881

  Clara Frazier fastened her father’s faded dungarees to the thin wire running from the house to the barn. The late morning breeze flapped the freshly laundered clothes, filling her nose with the scent of lye soap. She stepped away from the line and turned her face to the north, drinking in the crisp spring air until the sharp tang of lye abandoned the back of her throat. How different the country smelled from the city. She closed her eyes for a moment and savored the unique prairie perfume.

  Her senses filled, she scooped up the empty basket and made her way across the hard-packed ground toward the small wood-sided house that had been her home for less than a month. The solid, rhythmic whacks of an ax against wood echoed from behind the house, and Clara paused to listen. Papa had been so happy this morning to awaken to sunshine after days of gray clouds and drizzle. He’d proclaimed, “Ah, what a gift the Lord has given! A perfect day for clearing our field, Clara Rose.”

  Clara hadn’t argued—she never argued when Papa spoke of the Lord—but she couldn’t help worrying. Clearing a field for planting was a job for a young man. Papa was fifty already. And until the purchase of this property, he’d labored behind a desk rather than behind a plow. Even so, the steady whack! whack! whack! continued. Papa’s determination outweighed his aging back. Hadn’t his determination convinced her purchasing this farmstead and seeds for a corn crop would give them a fresh start? If he intended to work hard and bring this abandoned property to life again, she’d do her part. For as long as he needed her.

  She placed the basket on the porch and reached for the door latch. But a series of shrill, panicked yelps pulled her off the porch and across the yard in the direction of the sound. The yips became more frightened and pain filled, spurring her to hurry. Her full skirt tangled around her ankles, hindering her progress, so she grabbed the rose calico in her fists, lifted her skirt to her knees, and took off at a run.

  In a grassy patch on the opposite side of the road, a hawk wrestled with a small, furry creature. The little thing continued to release short, sharp yips of panic. Clara’s heart rolled over in compassion and fear. She could not let that bird eat a puppy for dinner! She dropped her skirt and waved both hands over her head, hollering as she dashed directly at the feathered predator.

  “Git! You there, you foul fowl! Git, I say!”

  The hawk flapped its wings at her, its steely eyes daring her to stay away.

  Clara snatched up a handful of long, dry grass stems and slapped at the bird. “I said git!”

  The bird screeched in protest, but to Clara’s relief, it hopped a few feet away and then took flight, leaving the little ball of fur still yelping on a patch of matted weeds. Clara threw the grass at the retreating hawk and then dropped to her knees. The poor little sandy-haired pup continued to cry in pathetic yelps even when Clara scooped it up and cradled it to her chest.

  She stroked its head, murmuring, “Shhh-shhh,” and it finally quieted, although it trembled within her grasp. She lifted it and pressed its soft ear to her cheek. “There, there, little one. You’re safe.”

  Now that the puppy had calmed, she laid it in her lap and examined it. Such a tiny thing, not much bigger than the palm of her hand, with scraggly fur, little rounded ears, and deep blue eyes. Two spots of blood stained its coat where the hawk’s talons or pecking beak had broken the skin. Clara used the handkerchief from her pocket to wipe the wounds, clicking her tongue on her teeth in sympathy. “Poor baby. Look what that mean old bird did to you.”

  It curled into a ball on her rumpled skirt and peered up at her with apprehensive eyes.

  Clara continued to stroke the pup with the wadded handkerchief and scanned the landscape. “Where’s your mama, huh? You’re not big enough to be out here all by yourself.” While she searched for a sign of a mama dog, a prickle of awareness crept across her scalp. She held her breath, listening, wondering what seemed amiss, and then recognition dawned.

  Papa’s ax was silent.

  Her breath whooshed out. He must be at the house, looking for his lunch, and here she sat worrying over a lost puppy. Clumsily, she pushed to her feet with the puppy clutched in the bend of her arm and jogged toward the house. As she neared it, another sound—this one soft, quavering, but as chilling as the puppy’s frantic yelps had been—reached her ears.

  “Help me… Clara Rose… Help…”

  Clara gasped. She placed the puppy in the woven laundry basket and broke into a run for the second time that morning, now to the field behind the barn. The tree Papa had claimed would be kindling by the end of the day lay on its side. But where was Papa? She slowed to a stop, scanning the area for a glimpse of her father. “Papa?”

  “Help me.”

  Her pulse pounding in trepidation, Clara inched forward, hand shielding her eyes from the bright sun. “Papa, where are you?” Her heart leaped in fright when she spotted his plaid shirt beneath the snarl of the fallen tree’s thick branches.

  She darted forward and clawed at the branches, tearing her hands and her dress in the process. “Papa! Papa!” Her breath heaved in frightened puffs. She tugged, grunting, inwardly begging God for the strength to free her father from beneath the tree’s weight. “I’ll get you out, Papa!” If only she had his determination, she’d have him out in the space of one heartbeat.

  “Clara Rose, stop.” Papa extended his hand through
the snarl of small branches and newly unfurled leaves. His flesh was scratched and bleeding, his shirtsleeve torn. “Listen to me, child.”

  Clara gripped his hand, biting her lip to hold back her sobs.

  “You can’t… lift the tree. We need many hands. Or mules… and a chain.” He closed his eyes. His white face contorted. He licked his lips and squinted at Clara. “Go to town. Get help.”

  A sob broke free. “But I can’t leave you alone like this! I—”

  “Go.” Although a mere, raspy whisper, Papa’s voice held strength. “I’m not alone. The Lord is with me.” His lips twisted into the most pitiful smile Clara had ever seen—even more pitiful than the one he’d worn all through Mama’s burial. “He’ll be with you, too, as you bring help. Now… go, Clara Rose.”

  Clara wadded her skirt in her hands and took off as fast as her shaky legs would carry her. Despite her fiercely trembling hands, she secured their trusty mare, Penelope, in the wagon traces, then climbed into the seat and took up the reins, all the while praying for God to preserve her father’s life. She’d already lost Mama and Brant and Clifford. She couldn’t lose Papa. Especially since it was all her fault he’d been clearing that field in the first place.

  Chapter Two

  To Clara’s great relief, her prayers were rewarded. Dr. Biehler quickly rounded up a half-dozen men, who filled the back of a wagon and followed Clara to the farm. There, they lifted the fallen tree from Papa’s form and carried him to the house. After a thorough examination, the doctor—who admitted he was only an animal doctor but all the small town could offer—set Papa’s leg, poured a spoonful of reddish-brown liquid into Papa’s mouth to help with the pain, and then escorted Clara from the room even though she wanted to stay by her father’s bed and watch his chest rise and fall.

  “He’ll likely sleep the rest of the day,” Dr. Biehler said, his voice low and soothing, “so don’t be concerned when he doesn’t rouse. His body took a terrible shock, and sleep is the best medicine I know for shock.”

  Clara tucked the strands of hair that had escaped her braid behind her ears. “What of his leg? How long will it take to heal?”

  The older man pursed his lips, making his thick gray mustache hairs stick straight out. “I have to be honest with you, Miss Frazier. It’s a clean break, but the bone snapped in two.”

  Nausea threatened. She clutched her stomach and willed herself to remain strong.

  “It will take time before he can put weight on it again. At least six weeks. Maybe more.”

  Her mind whirled. Papa said for the corn to be knee-high by the Fourth of July, he needed the seeds in the ground by the end of May. If he was off his feet for six weeks, he wouldn’t be able to return to the fields until early June. Or later, if healing took longer.

  “Oh.” She swallowed the bile filling her throat. “Oh my…”

  The doctor gave her shoulder a few comforting pats. “Now, Miss Frazier, let’s think positively, hm? A broken leg is easier to mend than a broken back. He suffered no internal injuries. All things considered, your father is a very lucky man.”

  Clara couldn’t bring herself to apply the word lucky to Papa’s situation, but she nodded and forced her lips into a weak smile. “Yes. Thank you, Doctor.”

  He gave her directions on caring for her father, promised to come by each day, and then stepped out on the porch. Clara, hugging herself, followed him. He moved past the laundry basket, and the little pup began yipping in short, panicked yelps.

  “Oh!” Clara scooped up the distraught animal and nestled it against her bodice. “I completely forgot about you, you poor little thing.” She turned a hopeful look on the doctor. “Sir, a hawk attacked this puppy and pierced its side. Would you look at the wounds and see if they need tending?” She held the puppy toward him.

  The doctor pinched the pup’s scruff. The little animal hung limp from the man’s grasp. “Where did you get this?”

  She pointed. “I found it in the field across the road, all by itself.”

  Dr. Biehler frowned. “Miss Frazier, this isn’t a puppy. It’s a kit.”

  Clara frowned, too, confused. A veterinarian mistook a baby dog for a baby cat?

  “Well…” He scratched his head, squinting at the dangling pup. “I cannot say for sure it’s a fox kit. It could be a coyote pup. They look a lot alike when they are small. But I can tell you this is a wild animal.” He gave it a quick, disinterested examination and then put it in the basket, where it immediately set up a series of complaining yelps and whines. He shook his head. “You had better take him back to where you found him.”

  Sympathy for the helpless creature twined through Clara. “But isn’t it—he—too young to fend for himself?”

  Dr. Biehler nodded. “Certainly. He is probably no more than three weeks old. Big enough to venture from the den, but not big enough to find his way back. The mother will hunt for him, though, so put him in the field and leave him there.”

  Clara crouched and stroked the pup’s ruff. He ceased his whimpering and nuzzled her hand. Having been raised in the city, she knew little about foxes or coyotes. “You’re sure the mother will come get him?”

  Dr. Biehler shrugged and stepped from the porch. “If the mother is alive. And if the human scent you have transferred to him doesn’t cause her to reject him.”

  Clara jerked her hand back.

  “But you cannot take care of him.”

  “You can’t take care of him, Clara.” The voice from her past swooped in and jolted her to her feet. “Why not?”

  The doctor’s eyebrows pinched low. “He is a wild creature.”

  “He’s a grown man.” She pushed aside the remembrance and plunked her fists on her hips. “But he’s helpless.” As she spoke to the doctor, she argued against the voice in her head: He can’t even boil water—how would he see to his own needs? “How can I leave him in that field all alone, knowing he might starve to death? Or be attacked by a hawk or some other predator?”

  “It is the nature of things, Miss Frazier.”

  “It’s natural for a girl to leave her home.” Clara shook her head hard. “No. I won’t accept that. Families take care of each other. He has no other family. I will take care of him.” Her thoughts jumbled. Was she speaking of the little lost creature or her father? Either way, her adamancy applied. “I won’t leave him to fend for himself.” Not even if it cost her yet another beau.

  “I think you’ll regret it.”

  She raised her chin. “No, sir, I will not.”

  He shrugged. “All right, then. Suit yourself. I’ll come out each morning over the next week or two to check on your father. If you have concerns, send a message, and I’ll make a special visit.” The doctor strode across the hard ground to the waiting wagon.

  Clara waved good-bye to the wagon of men, then plucked the pup from the basket and held it to her thumping heart. A warm, soft tongue swiped the underside of her chin, and she smiled. She wouldn’t regret the decision she’d made in Minneapolis, and she wouldn’t regret the decision she was making right now. Maybe she’d inherited some of her father’s determination after all.

  Over the next week, Clara’s determination to keep the pup—as he grew, his tail lent evidence he was a coyote pup and not a fox kit—flagged. He required around-the-clock feedings, and when he wasn’t sleeping, he wanted attention. Between caring for Papa and caring for the little coyote, she’d never been so exhausted. Yet she wouldn’t wish away either responsibility. Papa had dedicated his whole life to her, even leaving his good job and their fine home in Minneapolis for this run-down farmstead and an uncertain outcome. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for her father.

  As for the demanding little ball of fur, he provided what was certainly her only chance to share the maternal love pining for expression. So no matter how many times she warmed milk to drip into his greedy mouth with a bit of cloth or scrubbed up the messes he left on the pine floorboards, she wouldn’t complain. He made her laugh by scampering behi
nd her, batting at her shoelaces or biting at her hem, and he made her sigh when he curled in her lap and gazed up at her adoringly. The joy he gave her far exceeded the weight of responsibility.

  But other responsibilities weren’t so easily balanced. Milking the cow, bringing in water from the well, feeding their livestock, and cleaning the barn stalls—all things Papa had done before his accident—taxed her. Papa fretted over her working so hard, and he didn’t believe her when she assured him she could handle the tasks. She supposed her drooping shoulders and dark-smudged eyes told the truth. But not until the day she carried Papa’s ax to the field and tried to hack apart the felled tree did he become stern and demand she give up trying to do his work.

  She sat on the edge of his bed and took his hand. “Papa, the field has to be cleared if we’re to put in a corn crop this year.”

  He scowled at her. “And do you intend to plow the ground and plant the seeds, too? Clara Rose, I appreciate your willingness, but it’s too much for you.”

  She laughed softly. “I suppose my classes at the Fenwick Finishing School for Girls didn’t prepare me for plowing and planting, but haven’t you always told me I could do anything I set my mind to if I relied on God’s strength?”

  Papa leaned against the pillows and sighed. He looked so old and tired. Tears pricked Clara’s eyes. He squeezed her hand. “God can do anything, and we can do all things through Him, it’s true, but you don’t have the muscles of a man, my daughter.” He turned her hand over and used his fingers to trace the blisters forming a line across her palm. “Your mother would roll over in her grave if she saw this.”

  Clara gently extracted her hand and hid it in the folds of her skirt. “I think you forget Mama’s last words, Papa. She bade me to be a loyal daughter and take good care of you. And that’s what I intend to do.”

  “But at what expense, Clara Rose?” Papa’s question hung in the room.